


ACAB, or the Arduous Collaboration of Anarky and Bane

by feelgoodchuckletrain



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Secret Six
Genre: ACAB, Anarchy, Anti-Hero, Pretentious, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Supervillains, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), The Rogues Gallery as Family (Batman)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28713876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelgoodchuckletrain/pseuds/feelgoodchuckletrain
Summary: Content warnings: Violent. Gory. Harsh language. Heavily features an extremely pretentious 20-something who thinks he's the only human being that's ever read books.Gotham's factory district has expanded, paving over low-income housing in the process. The new shining steel factories are churning out weapons and technology at the behest of the federal government. The crackdown from the GCPD, from the military, and from ICE will be swift and brutal. Who could possibly stand in the way of good ole' Uncle Sam?Hint: Not the billionaire with military-grade hardware.Anarky has caught wind of the oncoming storm, and the people of Gotham will never fight in the numbers they need to. Unless someone wakes them up, that is. But radicalizing a population already numb to serial killers and monsters is a tall order. He'll need help, muscle and an intellectual equal. Bane was only in it for the money and weapons, but before long, he started to see something of himself in a young man with a horrible past and grand aspirations.





	1. Prologue: Pig, Pyg and Pretention

**Author's Note:**

> A prologue to what will be a lengthy team-up between an often misunderstood villain and the most under-used anti-hero in the entirety of the New 52. Also featuring Professor Pyg, largely for thematic reasons. This pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the story. If you're not a fan of this vibe, later chapters will not be for you.
> 
> I've been out of touch with DC comics for a while and only just starting to read into anything post Rebirth. I will lift and play tetris with whatever bits of canon I like.

A bright light hit Detective Tasker’s eyes. There was one curtain his wife never managed to close, no matter how many times he told her it was a goddamned night shift, and he needed sleep if she wanted him to keep a roof over their fucking heads in this overpriced shithole. Unless she wanted to move to the East End and get shot in an alleyway, or worse. Was that what she wanted? Was it? Her and the kids were so fucking ungrateful.

He reached down automatically, for his belt, but his wrists remained firmly fastened in place. There was a rattle, the strong little chains on his handcuffs, and then a voice.  


“I don’t ordinarily call the police pigs.” There was a constant, whining noise and a faint scraping of metal-on-metal. Something being sharpened. “I save that term for capitalists.”

“Where am I?” Tasker asked. He was still blinded from the light, his head was swimming. Not a concussion. Drugs. He’d done enough of them to know. He couldn’t see the room, so he settled for taking stock--no weapons, no clothes except a hospital gown. “Who are you?” That was answered with a sharp, heavy blow to his left arm. He could feel the fracture. The slight straining shift he made when the crowbar left his arm let him feel each individual shard of bone poking into his skin. Detective Tasker was a hardened Marine before he’d joined the GCPD. He screamed less than most men would have.

“As I was saying, I don’t call you pigs,” the voice continued. The crowbar hooked around around the detective’s neck, scraping along his jaw before tilting his chin up. A face moved in, inches from his own, a pale mask and a flash of dark eyes. “Because I know pigs. They gorge themselves on whatever’s in front of them. They charge, mindlessly, if threatened. They know no remorse, no pain. They consume.” The mask moved backwards, and Tasker’s eye picked up close-cropped, lined hair and dark skin around the edges of it. His mind began to fill in the details for him:  _ suspect is an African-American male in his early twenties, short hair, approximately one hundred and sixty pounds. Last seen wearing a black hoodie with a red--wait. _

“You,” he choked out, through the pain. It had been, what, seven years? This was the kid who’d holed up two thousand refugees in a football stadium, and then cold-cocked him with a taser while he was trying to evacuate the fucking idiots during a storm.

“Did you remember me, Lieutenant Tasker?” The crowbar had drifted back up the detective’s face, gently brushing against the corner of his mouth. “That’s the bastard in you. The rich man trains you to have a keen eye. Someone has to watch those tired poor and huddled masses for them, right?” Tasker opened his mouth, parting his gritting teeth to speak, and found the crowbar lodged between them. It twisted, forcefully, catching in place on his canine tooth and holding his jaw open. “Then watch me closely. And answer my questions.”

Tasker did. Three teeth later.

“You know, my father always told me to be extra polite to the police, just in case,” Anarky said as he slipped a hand beneath his mask, mopping away the sweat, and the drop of blood that had snuck past his eyeholes. “It’s good advice for a young man who looks like me.” He raised the crowbar, slowly, gently, to the side of Tasker’s face. The detective flinched, and the crowbar patted his cheek, on the side where he wasn’t missing any teeth. “So thank you, detective, for putting my mind at ease, and doing all that hard work to keep our streets clean.” The crowbar clattered to the ground, and the light pulled back from Tasker’s face. "My associate will take care of you from here."  


Another masked man, taller, heavyset was standing behind him. "Oh, dear Christ, no, please--” Tasker began.  


“Ah, I see you know Doctor Valentin,” said Anarky. “He’s been keeping himself off the radar. He’s a family man now! The American dream, a son who takes after his dear old dad and two surgically enhanced plastic daughters. A perfect nuclear family.” Anarky reached up, gently patting the doctor on his shoulder. The sweaty, pockmarked mask of a pig betrayed no emotion from the doctor’s eyes, but there was heavy breathing, an almost blissful sigh. A giggle. “Do they still use him as a case study? To terrify you to the core when you join special investigations? I’d hazard a guess that they do, since it looks like you’ve wet yourself.”

“Please, God, I told you everything,” said Tasker. The whining he’d heard was a drill. The scraping, a sharpened bonesaw. “I’ll, I’ll do anything.”   
  
“Tell me, then, Tasker.  _ Forty percent _ of Gotham City Police engage in domestic abuse. Can you go back thirty-six hours and stop yourself, _just once,_ from contributing to that statistic?” Anarky said. Tears were starting to slip down the detective’s cheeks. “Or another twelve years past that, when you took a signing bonus to march off into a desert and _murder two children_?” Anarky had vastly better self-control than Professor Pyg, but his own breathing was heavy, satisfied, with righteous fury. Tasker was crying, bleeding out of the side of his mouth, his one arm limp against the handcuffs, as the dentist’s chair he was sitting in reclined back. Pyg’s heavy foot landed on a pedal, and began pumping it up to the right height. “And you had the absolute gall to major in  _ anthropology, _ of all things, so you could take your commission. _For more money._ ” 

“Why? Why, God?” Tasker already knew the kid wouldn’t give him mercy. Certainly, that fucking  _ thing _ wouldn’t. He was sobbing. His face was twisting inward, his legs were shuddering as the chair lifted, higher, higher and stopped.

“You made good money, too. Right up until they caught you in a bathroom with a nineteen year-old private first class. She's still in therapy." Anarky leaned back in a little. "But instead of changing yourself, you downgraded from the military to the paramilitary. And you've been using old military-turned-contractor friends to make sure Gotham cops don't miss out on all the new toys." He leaned down further. "So you can fence them. _For more money_." He stood back up again. Pyg was shuffling, uncomfortably, muttering. "I'm sorry," Anarky continued. "I know I said I was done. But all my research will go to waste after tonight. I read quite a lot. I never forget anything I read. And I made _sure_ to read _all about you_ , Tasker,” said Anarky. He turned, looking back a final time, over his shoulder. “I pick my bastards very carefully. And I certainly know a pig when I see one. Isn’t that right, Lazlo?”

There was a low chuckle from Professor Pyg in response, and a whining as the drill went up to speed. Anarky didn’t bother to watch what would unfold. Tasker was full of shit and blood, just like the rest of them, and the noises were unpleasant enough. Anarky closed his eyes, for a moment, stepping away, and began to speak aloud, to drown the screans from his ears. He spread his arms out, and recited the only quote that came to mind.

“ _Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life, abhorr'd all womankind, but most a wife: so single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed, well pleas'd to want a consort of his bed._ ” The screams were louder. Wet, gurgling. There was a heavy sound, something meaty hitting the floor. Anarky felt a twinge of guilt for a moment. He didn't like dealing with someone as weak-minded and unnecessarily brutal as Valentin. Maybe Tasker only deserved two bullets in the back of his head. Then, Anarky remembered Mary Tasker, and her bruised face and swollen jaw. He pushed it down, and continued. “ _Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill, In sculpture exercis'd his happy skill;_ _and carv'd in iv'ry such a maid, so fair, as Nature could not with his art compare._ ”

Pyg hummed to himself, as he worked, tunelessly, but enthusiastic all the same. The vocal cords had to go first. Completely out of place. They could go back once his throat came out of his solar plexus. Once he couldn't scream over Pyg's hum, the surgeon set to work on his intestines. They made such a pretty, symmetrical bowtie. The loops would go around the shoulders, and then, oh, saline and synthol and everything nice, to keep them safe. But what about the fingers? Oh, there are such perfect blank spots where the patient was missing all of those teeth. And that thing, oh, it was too small and awkwardly tilted to be hiding down there. But if he shaved it down, it could make such a lovely tail! Oh yes, this one, Pyg knew, was going to be just perfect. Mother goat might finally be pleased with this one!  


And for Pyg himself, Detective Tasker was going to make him a _very_ happy father, all over again.


	2. Battered, Unbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anarky meets Bane. A flurry of words and cheap quotes, delivered like jabs, does not disguise that he is punching against someone vastly out of his weight class.

Bane was a _threat_. It was not that he was threatening. It was not that he threatened. It was not that he should be treated as a threat. All of those were true things, yes. But Bane _himself_ was a threat made flesh. He loomed, hands behind his back, at something very like a parade rest. His mask was off, but it made no difference to the stone shape of his face. He was waiting, in front of a military surplus fold-up desk. The only things on it were a burner phone, an alarm clock, and rust.

Anarky felt a twinge in his jaw, as he crept through the furthest door into the abandoned building on the edge of the docks. Dealing with mad men was one thing. You could read the delusions of a tactless lunatic like Valentin, and see exactly what pieces were missing, what crumbling facades of reason remained. You merely had to fill in the blanks, or accept lost causes. But where a Pyg or a Hatter was a decrepit, if dangerous, ruin, Bane was a fortress. Solid walls, thick spikes.

Anarky had his jaw broken twice. Once, by a man who went on to be a Green Lantern. The other, by a man dressed like a bat. And Bane had broken that bat.

“You are a polite rat. Not even a pistol.” Bane spoke in clipped words and the mixed accent of a polyglot. Anarky froze in place, half-tucked behind a shipping container. “I would have met the dead man at midnight.” One massive arm raised, gesturing towards the alarm clock on the desk. Eleven fifty-five. “You have five minutes. Convince me you are not a thorn in my side.”

Anarky swallowed. He had been dead silent. Not a scuff of his boots or a rustling of cloth. He remained silent for a few moments.  


“Your heart beats. My ears are keen.” Said Bane, after that pause. “You are wasting your limited time. Speak.”

“We have a mutual enemy,” Anarky began. Bane laughed. It was not genuine. There was no mirth. It was an extension of Bane, the _threat_. It echoed in the warehouse, and it resonated in Anarky's chest, when he laughed. “We would mutually benefit from cooperating.”

“I broke the Bat. His wealth brought him back.” Said Bane. “Better men have told me we could best him together.”

“I’m not talking about the deluded cryptofascist toadie.” Anarky said. There was a chunk of him, one that felt an immediate and visceral sense of rebellion. Bane was treating him like a child. “There are powerful men hunting you. Hunting the poor. Killing children, claiming the greater good, denying it is for sport.”

“Childhood?” Bane let it hang in the air for a moment. “Childhood is an illusion.”

“You’ve saved children, in the past. You have a particular grudge against kidnappers, if I recall.” Anarky said. Bane finally looked over his shoulder. His gaze slid neatly past Anarky’s place in the shadows, but he was sure Bane had caught every detail of him, just the same. Then, Bane reached into his pocket, and put on his mask. “Our childhood was an illusion.”

“ _You_ are not _Bane_. Do not forget that. Do not compare us again. You have one minute remaining. Speak quickly.”

Anarky stood. Bane could kill him. Easily. It made no difference to his chances if he walked to the desk and got within arm's reach of him. "Very well. You are hunted by multiple government agencies, paramilitary forces that I aim to dismantle, among a great deal of others. They are funded in part by wealthy parasites, who I have no empathy for, and their coffers and resources will prove useful to you once they are broken." He threw down a set of pictures. "Break them, break their metaphorical and physical backs. Make them an example for me. Then use your new weapons to rule your kingdom."

"Not short enough." Bane said. A single finger stayed the alarm clock before it rang. But he was contemplating, already lifting a photo to inspect it. "Mr. Stagg is a powerful enemy."

"Not once he has met the guillotine."

"And I am to serve as your descending blade, Robespierre?" Bane barked that harsh laugh, again. The one that was made to cut through the lungs and mind, to take away breath and thought. Anarky already knew his way around it. It didn’t scare him the second time. Bane was listening instead of murdering. Anarky had already convinced him.  


"No man, woman or child should be an instrument. The worth of man is an inherent right to each individual. I own no one. You would be a comrade."

"Ideals break before bodies. You are not old enough to understand that."

"No. I will never forget my aims. I have not, and will not be consumed, unless it is in fire."

"Have you taken a bullet?"

"Two."

"Broken limbs?"

"I have fought Batman."

"He breaks bones with restraint. Burned? Cut open? Rendered weak, bedbound, humiliated?"

"Broken? No. I am an edge case of humanity, Bane. But I am not you."

"No one is. You will break. In time. All do."

"No, I won't."

"I know better. But we may have mutual use to each other."

"The purest form of anarchy." He offered a hand. Bane encircled it, up to his forearm. "Cooperation."

"Hm. Lofty. Weighty. Pretentious." Bane's mask twisted. "But whole." He twisted his grip. Anarky’s wrist, forearm and three of his fingers snapped, his entire shoulder was wrenched from its socket. His body limply spun after it, sinew pulling his limb like a puppet on a string. “More whole than your body.”

“Unnnnnngh.” Anarky suppressed the scream, but not the animal groan of pain. He felt the difference there, in that instant. Batman was vicious, efficient. He maximized short-term and minimized long-term injury. Bane had no such concern. “Unnecessary.” He said, once the involuntary moans had stopped.

“It stilled your tongue.” Said Bane. “Tell me. Did you write with that hand?”

“No.”

“A good liar. But I can see the twitches of your eyes behind your mask. Cover the sockets.” Bane gripped him by the back of his hood and hauled him to his feet. “Ambidextrous, then. I bear no concern.”

“And you would have,” Anarky had to pause, suck in a breath. His ears were ringing. Dictionaries, thesauruses, lofty words of long-dead men, they scrolled past in his head. But his breath wouldn't let him use them yet. “You would have, have," he sucked in breath. "What, remorse, if I needed that hand?”

“I would have made a partner less efficient. The crates Tasker would have delivered. You’ll bring them here before sunrise.” Bane looked down at him. Anarky rose back to his full height, making him eye-level with the big man’s rib cage. “You will wait. You will not sleep. You will tell me in full detail, everything you know, and everything you have planned, when I return.”

“Did I not earn Tasker’s time?” Anarky hissed. Hurting. Standing up was painful, the wrenched shoulder was pulling his back and his chest.

“You will spend that time making right your folly.”

“I’ll tell you now. Come on in.” Anarky had to reach across to his pocket, on the side of his maimed arm. He clicked the power button on a smartphone, ending the call that had been running, muted, in his pocket. Bane looked down at him, and waited. The truck rolled up thirty seconds later. Three men clambered out of it, in plain clothes, and wordlessly began stacking the crates. “People are frugal in guarding their personal property; but as soon as it comes to squandering time they are most wasteful of the one thing in which it is right to be stingy.”

“Seneca.” Said Bane. “ _ De Brevitate Vitae _ . The tasteless love marble statues of dead men.”

“I  _ despise _ Roman philosophy,” said Anarky. He looked up, having to stare nearly straight up. Bane was still close to his chest, swinging his neck down to look Anarky in the eyes. “They gathered all of the knowledge of a cohesive, adaptable society and philosophy, that absorbed cultures without killing them.” A rush of hate drowned out every ache and pain in Anarky’s body. “They took the font of all human knowledge, drew every! Possible! Wrong! Conclusion!” He threw out an arm wide. His broken one flopped uselessly in response, feeling like it was full of gravel. It made him take a breath, but did not stop him. “The Romans gave us _republics_ , Bane. America marches to the beat of a society that died in language a millennium and a half ago, in spirit a thousand and in body five hundred. Both built their decadence on the broken backs of slaves. I utter their platitudes from the side of my mouth out of spite.”

“You fear me.” Bane said. “You distrust me. Those are both wise.” His gaze lingered. It was a threat again. He exuded it. Every new tactic was fresh, unnerving. He'd recognized that the laugh wouldn't work on Anarky a second time. But his well of menace was bottomless. "Hate? I return in kind."  


“I don’t hate you, Bane. I hate that.” He pointed with his good arm, spinning around. He pointed to the crates. Heavy, metal. Rows of bolts, and pressure seals. GCPD stamps and Army stars. “Those crates reek of money, and this meeting of bribery. Transaction!” He winced, the arm again. Taking in a deep breath, speaking forcefully, those hurt too. He had to have this conversation now. He would not be functional within the hour. But his mouth kept running. “But I suppose that miasma can’t always be washed off the means of production, when you seize them.”

“There it is. The philosopher you’ll quote honestly.” Beneath his mask, Bane’s face shifted. It was barely perceptible, and not quite amusement. It was perhaps a tinge of victory, his own spite coming through. Anarky could talk, and talk, and talk. But those words would rip out of his spine.

“I don’t care for Marx either,” said Anarky. Bane’s face turned back to stone. “But I owe him a  _ debt _ . Do you have a map I can mark as I explain?”

“I play chess without boards. My memory will serve just as well.”

“Ah, chess! The western hallmark of intelligence.” Anarky turned, and spat, gesturing to the men as they finished unloading, to keep the last two crates. One was metal, the other dingy, stained wood. “And you call  _ me _ pretentious.”

“I do. I learned chess from Caribbean convicts. Europeans stole everything. Their occasional unique invention, we steal back.” Bane turned as well, reaching to the desk, and crushing the burner phone with one hand. Then, the alarm clock with the other. “You have a map, because you planned on using it. There is your space to unfold it. I take your meaning. You gave me my property. To save the time of guarding it.”

“Precisely.” Anarky reached into his pocket, and unfolded the map. It took time to do it with one hand. His arm was still on fire, and his anger had wilted. The adrenaline, too, was fading. It would only get worse. He had a long explanation in front of him. "Let's begin with the factories on the East End."

"The means of production." Said Bane. "You have yet to seize them."

"Production of the weapons, no. Producing their technology, not yet." He waved to the two remaining boxes, in the back of the truck, as it began to pull away. "But I have the means of producing _corpses_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as smart as Anarky or Bane so feel free to let me know if I made any huge mistakes with any references that those guys wouldn't have.
> 
> Anarky is lofty and self-assured in my estimation. The only way I can write him is that philosophy major you knew in sophomore year who would not shut the fuck up. If he's irksome, I've done my job.


End file.
